Nobody expected much from the Boys of Winter. Wins came hard in that league. If nothing else, the team had eight seniors and six players at least six foot four. Yardsticks don't win games. Mom said, "I didn't know they piled it that high."
They say, "tradition never dies." Our little town hadn't seen its birth. Hockey was the community choice.
We won the last three the last year, but never touched .500. Lexington, the State Champ, beat us twice. The second loss was a moral victory at 90-72. I drew two charges, a bug on Ron Lee's windshield. His future was NBA. Mine was M.D.
We went to North Andover for a scrimmage. Their rat-dog point guard went on to play at Merrimack and become a coaching legend. He swung at me, annoyed that a nobody dared play him tight and shut him down. I missed his press clippings.
Before the season, the team voted for Captain, the mythic "C" that wasn't part of the uniform. I voted for Steve. I always voted for Steve. Coach Lane announced that I was Captain. My first thought was, "We need a recount."
We won a pair of nonleague games and opened the league with a soul-crushing 90-89 home loss to Stoneham. Each of us felt responsible. Coach said people would talk about the game for years. Great. A legacy loss. A defensive disaster.
The turning point was a two-point loss to...Lexington. "You lost because it said LEXINGTON on their jerseys." Their press forced turnovers, the stuff of rookies. Soul-searching followed by tough training painted a new picture. Advantage-disadvantage became the practice norm.
We lost the Stoneham rematch 50-49. That left us 8 and 3. It was the last loss for almost two months, just short of the brass ring. Lexington fell twice. So much for tradition.
Behind the scenes a local pol plotted revenge against the coach who cut his son. Thirteen consecutive wins sank his scheme. "Coach stays." And became a Hall of Famer.
The local sports writer called us, "The Cardiac Kids." Decades later I became his doctor.
Ankle and knee pain are the flotsam from fifty years past. Rain and mist won't allow an old man to forget the past.
Gazing into the stars doesn't ask what might have been but what might be for the hopefuls boarding their boats. Some hook the prize; others come back empty. Tears are real. It's not fair. It just is. Basketball is a cruel mistress. So it was and will ever be.